


Book One: Philosopher's Stone

by The_Drowsy_Captain



Series: Harry Potter Romance Rewrite... maybe? [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Rewrite, Found Family, Gen, Hogwarts First Year, No Harry Potter, Not Canon Compliant, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rating May Change, Reader is gender neutral, Reader-Insert, To Be Continued, reader is Harry potter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-17 16:41:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28728294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Drowsy_Captain/pseuds/The_Drowsy_Captain
Summary: "Y/N Potter, the one who lived" is whispered in hushed households all across the country- all expect one. The poor child who lived under the stairs, with no real place to call home. Only a roof over their head and a semi-hot meal in their stomach. Until one day, they receive a letter that could change everything. That will change everything.
Series: Harry Potter Romance Rewrite... maybe? [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2106045
Kudos: 3





	Book One: Philosopher's Stone

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer, I do not promise I will finish this, but I do promise this is hilarious. This is by no means, an exact copy, or a full rewrite. Dialogue has been kept, scenes may or may not be added or removed, and I may or may not fix plot holes. Please assume this is PG until the characters are of age. 
> 
> New chapters whenever I feel like it.

Not a soul noticed the large tawny owl fluttering past the window. At half-past eight, Mr. Durseley picked up his briefcase, pecked Mrs. Dursley on the cheek quickly, however, unfortunately, missed his son’s cheek as Dudley had decided to throw a tantrum, coating the walls and floor with his cereal.

“Little tyke,” Mr. Dursley chortled as he left the house, heading to his car. He backed out of number four’s drive, heading down the street until he reached the corner. Upon which, he noticed the first sign of something peculiar - a cat reading a map.

For a moment, Mr. Dursley didn’t really realize what he’d just seen - then his head jerked around to look once more. A tabby cat standing on the corner of Privet Drive, but the map nowhere to be found.

Shaking his head, he drove off once more, blaming the occurrence on a trick of the light. He couldn’t help but watch the cat in his mirror as he drove now. He swore it was reading- no, looking at the sign that read Privet Drive. Cats can’t read, no matter if it was maps or signs.

As he drove towards town, he thought of nothing except a large order of drills that he was hoping to find delivered that day. But there on the edge of town, drills were driven from his mind by a new sight. 

As he sat in the usual morning traffic jam, he noticed an odd sight. Strange people milling about, dressed in cloaks- funny clothes. He couldn’t bear the sight of people who dressed as such, as if they were young people, yet to outlive their teenage years. He supposed this was some stupid new fashion trend as he drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. His eyes fell on a huddle of these weirdos standing quite close by. They were whispering excitedly together, which positively enraged Mr. Dursley- mostly about the fact they weren’t young at all! One of the men was nearly older than he was, wearing an emerald-green cloak! The nerve of him! 

Then, just as suddenly as he’d noticed, it struck him that this was probably not in fact, some silly stunt. That these people were gathering for something. Perhaps a convention or a fare. Whatever the case was, he was elated when the traffic cleared up enough to deliver him to the Grunnings parking lot, his mind returning to drills.

Mr. Dursley always sat with his back to the window in his office on the ninth floor. Today was one of the days that he should’ve been thankful for this fact because if he had been looking outside he’d have found himself focusing on the owls swooping past in broad daylight. His mind is taken far away from drills. However, the people on the street noticed the owls, pointing and gazing with open-mouths as owl after owl raced overhead.

Most of them had never seen an owl, even during the night, so it causes great excitement in the street. Especially amongst wandering children. Or perhaps, there was another reason for their fascination with these owls?

Much to his pleasure, Mr. Dursley had a perfectly normal, owl-free morning. He had yelled at five different people, made several important telephone calls, and shouted a bit more. It made him feel very proud of how successful he’d become. This good mood persisted until lunch time, when he thought he’d stretch his legs and walk across the road to buy a bun from the bakery. Their buns always tasted the best, especially as a midday snack.

Unfortunately, he’d forgotten about the people in cloaks, until he passed a group of them next to the bakers. He eyed them with ferocity as he passed by, an uneasy sensation settling in the pit of his stomach. This bunch was positively aggravating as they whispered far too excitedly with each other, a collection tin nowhere insight.

On his way back, he passed them once more, clutching the top of a paper bag that held a large jelly doughnut. A few words caught his ears of what they were saying. 

“The Potters, that’s right, that’s what I heard-”

“-yes, their child, Y/N-”

Mr. Dursley stopped dead in his tracks as fear flooded over him. He looked back at the whisperers as if he wanted to say something, ask something. But before he could he thought better of it. In a mad rush, he dashed back to his office, snapping a hiss at his secretary to not disturb him, seized his telephone, and had almost finished dialling his home number when he changed his mind.

Setting the receiver down, he stroked his mustache, pondering. Potter wasn’t such an unusual name. There had to be lots of people called Potter who had a child named Y/N. Thinking about it ow, he wasn’t even sure that they’d even called them Y/N. He’d never seen the baby.

It might have been a similar sounding name. There was no point in worrying Mrs. Dursely, she always got so upset at the mention of her sister. He didn’t fault her- with a sister like that… 

However, during the rest of the day, he found it difficult to concentrate on his drills. When he’d left the building at 5 o’clock, he was so worried that he walked straight into someone just outside the door.

“Sorry,” he grunted as the tiny old man stumbled violently and nearly tipped over. 

It was a few seconds before Mr. Dursely realized the man dawned a violet cloak. He didn’t seem to be upset at nearly being knocked down, in fact, his face was split into a wide smile as he spoke in a squeaky voice that made passerby’s stare.

“Don’t be sorry, my dear sir, for nothing could upset me today! Rejoice, for You-Know-Who has gone at last! Even Muggles such as yourself should be celebrating this joyous day!”

Then the very frazzled Mr. Dursley was hugged around the middle as the man walked off. He stood there for a moment, rooted to the spot. A complete stranger had hugged him. Not to mention calling him whatever a muggle was… 

He hurried to his car and set off towards his home, hoping he’d imagined the whole day. Which in fact, he’d never hoped for before, because he didn’t approve of imagination. 

As he pulled into his driveway, he spotted the same cat as before sitting on his garden wall.  
“Shoo!” he said angrily as he waved at the cat. The cat didn’t move. It just stared at him with an unsettlingly stern look. He wondered if that was normal cat behaviour as he pulled himself together and entered his home.

He was still determined not to mention a thing to his wife. She had had a nice, normal day, telling him all about Mrs. Next Door’s problems with her daughter and how Dudley had learnt a new word (“Won’t”). He tried to act as normal as one could, putting Dudley to bed and going down to relax in the living room to the last report on the evening news.

“And finally bird-watchers everywhere have reported that the nation’s owls have been behaving very unusually today. Although owls normally hunt at night and are hardly ever seen in the daylight, there have been hundreds of sightings of these birds flying in every direction since sunrise! Experts are unable to explain why the owls have suddenly changed their sleeping pattern.” the newscaster beamed. “Most mysterious. And now, over to Jim McGuffin with the weather. Going to be any more owl showers tonight, Jim?”

“Well Ted,” said the weatherman, “I don’t about that, but it’s not only the owls that have been acting oddly today. Viewers as far apart as Kent, Yorkshire, and Dundee have been phoning in to tell me that instead of the rain I promised yesterday, they’ve had a downpour of shooting stars! Perhaps people have been celebrating Bonfire Night early — it’s not until next week, folks! But I can promise a wet night tonight.”

Mr. Dursley froze in his armchair. There were shooting stars all over Britain? Owls flying by daylight? Mysterious people in cloaks across the country? And a whisper, that dreaded whisper about the Potters… begrudging Mrs.Dursely came into the living room carrying two cups of tea. He had to say something to her. This was not good. Not good at all.

He cleared his throat, attempting to push down the nervousness.  
“Er- Petunia, Dear - you haven’t heard from your sister lately, have you?”

An expected defensive look crossed Mrs. Dursley’s face. Normally, they pretended as if she never had a sister to begin with, so it was to be expected.  
“No. Why?” she said sharply.

“Funny stuff on the news,” Mr. Dusrely mumbled, gesturing to the television. “Owls- shooting stars- and there were quite a lot of funny-looking people in town today.”

“So?” Mrs. Dursely snapped again

“Well, I just thought- maybe- it was something to do with... you know… her crowd.”

As his wife sipped her tea, he wondered if he dared tell her he’d heard the name “Potter”. He decided against this idea, instead, as casually as he could, he stated:  
“Their child- they’d be about Dudley’s age now, wouldn’t they?”

“I suppose so,” Ms. Dursely huffed stiffly.

“What was his name again? Howard, isn’t it?”

“Y/N. Nasty, common name if you asked me.”

“Oh, yes,” said Mr. Dursley, his heart sinking horribly in his large chest. “Yes, I quite agree.”

He didn’t dare say another word on the subject as he followed behind her to bed. While she was in the bathroom, he crept to the bedroom window and peered down in the front garden. The cat still remained there. He swore it was staring down Privet Drive as if it was waiting for something. His mind was going far too into his imagination for one night, so he shut the window and got into bed.

Mrs. Dursely fell asleep quickly, but Mr. Dursley lay awake, sorting through it all in his mind. His last, comforting thought before he fell fast asleep as if the Potters were involved there was no reason for them to come even remotely near him and his wife, let alone his precious son. 

The Potters knew very well what he and Petunia thought about them and their… kind. He yawned and turned over, happy thoughts about how it couldn’t affect him comforting him to sleep.

Oh how very wrong he was. For, while he’d been drifting off to uneasy sleep, the cat had moved once more, no signs of sleepiness on it’s furred face. It remained like a statue on the wall, pacing every so often as its eyes fixed on the far corner of Privet Drive. It didn’t jolt at the car door slamming on the next street over, nor the two owls swooping overhead and landing on a few porches. In fact, it was nearly midnight before the cat moved from the garden wall.

A man dressed like no other appeared on the corner where the cat had been watching. His appearance sudden and silent, so much so that you’d have thought he simply appeared out of thin air. The cat’s tail twitched and its eyes narrowed to stare at the new man.

Nothing like this man was seen on Privet Drive on the daily, let alone yearly. He was tall, thin, and extremely old, judging by the length of his silver hair and beard, which in fact, were long enough to be tucked into his belt. He was dressed in long robes, a purple cloak that swept the ground and high-heeled, buckled boots neatly around his feet. His blue eyes were bright and sparkling behind his half-moon spectacles, and his nose was long and crooked as if it’d been broken at least twice.

This man was fondly known as Albus Dumbledore. He didn’t seem to realize that he’d just arrived in a street where everything from his name to his boots would be unwelcome, he was far too busy rummaging in his cloak, searching for something.

But he did seem to realize he was being watched by the tabby cat that stared at him from the other end of the street. For some reason, the sight of this very cat amused him. He chuckled and muttered to himself, “I should’ve known.”

Once he’d found what he was looking for in his inside pocket, a tiny silver cigarette lighter, he flicked it open. Holding it up in the air and clicked it. The nearest street lamp went out with a tiny ‘pop’! He clicked it again and the next, then the next, then the next, until he’d clicked it twelve times until the whole street was only illuminated by two tiny pinpricks in the distance, which were the eyes of the cat watching him.

If anyone looked out of their window now, even beady-eyed Mrs. Dursley, they wouldn’t be able to see anything that was happening down on the pavement. He slipped the lighter back inside his cloak and set off down the street toward number four, where he met the cat on the garden wall. He didn’t look at it but simply spoke out to it.

“Fancy meeting you here, Professor McGonagall.” He turned and smiled at the tabby, which was now gone from its post. Instead, he was smiling at a rather severe-looking woman with square glasses the exact shape of the markings the cat posses around its eyes. 

She, too, was wearing robes, an emerald cloak that hid everything underneath. Her hair was drawn back into a tight bun, weary eyes and a ruffled look creeping across her face.  
“How did you know it was me?” she asked.

“My dear Professor, I’ve never seen a cat sit so stiffly.”

“You’d be stiff if you had been sitting on a brick wall all day.”

.“All day? When you could have been celebrating? I must have passed a dozen feasts and parties on my way here.”

She sniffled angrily. “Of course, everyone’s celebrating, all right. You’d think they’d be a tad bit more careful, but no, even the Muggles have started to notice something going on. It was on their news, Albus.”

She jerked her head towards the Dursley’s dark living room window. 

“I heard it myself. Flocks of owls, shooting stars, well they’re not completely stupid. They were bound to notice something. Shooting stars down in Kent- it had to have been Dedalus Diggle. He never had much sense.”

“You can’t blame them. We’ve waited eleven years to celebrate this.”

“I know that. But that’s no reason to lose our heads! People are being downright careless, out on the streets in broad daylight. Not even dressed in Muggle clothes, and swapping rumours no less.”

“A fine thing it would be if, on the very day You-Know-Who seems to have disappeared, at last, the Muggles found out about us all. I suppose he really has gone… right Albus?”

“It certainly seems that way. We have much to be thankful for. Care for a lemon drop?”

“A what?”

“A lemon drop. They’re a Muggle sweet that I’m rather fond of.”

“No, thank you,” she replied coldly as if she didn’t think this was the moment for lemon drops.  
“As I say, even if You-Know-Who has gone-”

“My dear Professor, surely a sensible person like yourself can call him by his name? All this ‘You-Know-Who’ nonsense- for eleven years I have been attempting to persuade people, even you, to call him by his proper name: Voldemort.”

Professor McGonagall flinched, however, Dumbledor, who was sticking two lemon drops, seemed not to have noticed.

“It all gets so confusing if we keep saying ‘You-Know-Who’. I have never seen any reason to be frightened of saying Voldemort’s name.”

“I know you haven’t,” said Professor McGonagall, sounding exasperated and a tad bit admiring of the older man’s confidence. “But you’re different. Everyone knows you’re the only one You-Know- oh, all right, Voldemort, was frightened of.”

“You flatter me,” said Dumbledore calmly. “Voldemort had powers I will never have.”

“Only because you’re too- well-noble to use them.”

“It’s lucky it’s dark. I haven’t blushed so much since Madam Pomfrey told me she liked my new earmuffs.”

Shooting a sharp look to Dumbledore, McGonagall spoke, “The owls are nothing next to the rumours that are flying around. Do you know what everyone's saying? About why he’s disappeared? About what finally stopped him?”

This seems to be the point of conversation that had McGonagall’s fur on edge the most. The reason she’d been waiting in the cold, on a hard wall all day for neither a cat nor a woman had fixed Dumbledore with such a piercing stare as she did now. It was written across her face that whatever “everyone” was saying, she was not willing to believe it until Dumbledore himself told her it was true. Dumbledore, however odd he was, chose another lemon drop and didn’t answer.

“What they’re saying,” she pressed on, “is that last night Voldemort turned up in Godric’s Hollow. He went to find the Potters. The rumour is that Lily and James Potter are- are- that they’re- dead.”

Dumbledore bowed his head, unwilling to speak out about the subject. 

Professor McGonagall gasped.  
“Lily and James . . . I can’t believe it . . . I didn’t want to believe it . . . Oh, Albus . . .”

Dumbledore reached out and patted her on the shoulder.   
“I know . . . I know . . .” he said heavily.

Professor McGonagall’s voice trembled as she went on.   
“That’s not all. They’re saying he tried to kill the Potters’ child, Y/N. But- he couldn’t. He couldn’t kill that little baby. No one knows why, or how, but they’re saying that when he couldn’t kill Y/N Potter, Voldemort’s power somehow broke- and that’s why he’s gone.”

Dumbledore nodded glumly.

“It’s- it’s true?” faltered Professor McGonagall. “After all, he’s done . . .all the people he’s killed . . . he couldn’t kill a little baby? It’s just astounding . . . of all the things to stop him . . . but how in the name of heaven did Y/N survive?”

“We can only guess,” said Dumbledore. “We may never know.”

Pulling out a lace handkerchief, she dabbed at her eyes beneath her spectacles. Dumbledore gave a loud sniff as he took a golden watch in his boney hand and examined it. It was quite an odd, old watch. Twelve hands but no numbers; instead little planets moving around the edge. It must have made sense to him though because he placed it back in his pocket and spoke:  
“Hagrid’s late. I suppose it was he who told you I’d be here, by the way?”

“Yes,” said Professor McGonagall. “And I don’t suppose you’re going to tell me why you’re here, of all places?”

“I’ve come to bring Y/N to their aunt and uncle. They’re the only family they  
has left now.”

“You don’t mean- you can’t mean the people who live here?” cried Professor McGonagall, jumping to her feet and pointing at number four.

“Dumbledore- you can’t. I’ve been watching them all day. You couldn't find two people who are less like us. And they’ve got this son- I saw him kicking his mother all the way up the street, screaming for sweets. Y/N Potter come and live here!”

“It’s the best place for them,” said Dumbledore firmly. “Their aunt and uncle will be able to explain everything to them when they’re older. I’ve written them a letter.”

“A letter?” repeated Professor McGonagall faintly, sitting back down on the wall. “Really, Dumbledore, you think you can explain all this in a letter? These people will never understand him! They’ll be famous- a legend- I wouldn't be surprised if today was known as Y/N Potter Day in the future- there will be books written about Y/N- every child in our world will know their name!”  
“Exactly,” said Dumbledore, looking very seriously over the top of his half-moon glasses. “It would be enough to turn any child’s head. Famous before they can walk and talk! Famous for something they won’t even remember! Can’t you see how much better off they’ll be, growing up away from all that until they’re ready to take it?”

Professor McGonagall opened her mouth, changed her mind, swallowed, and then said, “Yes- yes, you’re right, of course. But how is the child getting here, Dumbledore?” She eyed his cloak suddenly as though she thought he might be hiding Y/N underneath it.

“Hagrid’s bringing them.”

“You think it- wise- to trust Hagrid with something as important as this?”

“I would trust Hagrid with my life,” said Dumbledore. 

“I’m not saying his heart isn’t in the right place, but you can’t pretend he’s not careless. He does tend to- what was that?”

A low rumbling broke through the silence, causing the two wizards to worry if any Muggles might hear as it grew steadily louder. Looking up and down the street they did not see a light until at last, they looked up to see the headlight of a huge motorcycle falling out of the air and landing on the road in front of them. If the motorcycle was huge, it meant very little when compared to the man sitting astride it. He was nearly twice as tall as a normal man and at least five times as wide. He simply looked far to be allowed, and wild- so wild- with long tangles of bushy black hair and a beard that hid most of his face, his hands had to be the size of can lids and his feet were in their leader boots, the size of baby dolphins. In his vast, muscular arms, he was holding a bundle of blankets.

“Hagrid,” said Dumbledore, sounding relieved. “At last. And where did you get that motorcycle?”

“Borrowed it, Professor Dumbledore, sir,” replied the giant as he carefully climbed out of the motorcycle.

“Young Sirius Black lent it to me. I’ve got him, sir.”

“No problems, were there?”

“No, sir- house was almost destroyed, but I got them out alright before the Muggles started swarmin’ around. They fell asleep as we was flyin’ over Bristol.”

Dumbledore and Professor McGonagall bent forward over the bundle of blankets. Inside, just visible, was a baby, fast asleep. Under a tuft of jet-black hair over their forehead, they could see a curiously shaped cut, like a bolt of lightning.

“Is that where-?” whispered Professor McGonagall.

“Yes,” said Dumbledore. “They’ll have that scar forever.”

“Couldn’t you do something about it, Dumbledore?”

“Even if I could, I wouldn’t. Scars can come in handy. I have one myself above my left knee that is a perfect map of the London Underground. Well- give them here, Hagrid- we’d better get this over with.”

Dumbledore took Y/N in his arms and turned toward the Dursleys House.

“Could I- could I say good-bye to them, sir?” asked Hagrid. 

With a nod from Dumbledore, Hagrid bent over Y/N and gave them what must have been a very scratchy, whiskery kiss. The kind one gets from the odd uncle at Christmas. Then suddenly, Hagrid let out a howl like a wounded dog.

“Ssssh!” hissed McGonagall, “You’ll wake the Muggles!”

“S-s-sorry,” sobbed Hagrid, taking out a large, spotted handkerchief, burying his face in it. “But I c-c-can’t stand it- Lily an’ James dead- an’poor little Y/N off their to live their life with Muggles-”

“Yes, yes, it’s all very sad, but get a grip on yourself, Hagrid, or we’ll be found,” Professor McGonagall whispered, patting Hagrid gingerly on the arm as Dumbledore stepped over the low garden wall and walked to the front door. 

He laid Y/N gently on the doorstep, took a letter out of his cloak, tucked it inside Y/N’s blankets, and then came back to the other two. For a minute that felt like an eternity, the three of them looked at the little bundle; Hagrid’s shoulders shaking, McGonagall blinking furiously, and the twinkling light almost always from Dumbledore’s eyes seemingly gone out. 

“Well,” said Dumbledore finally, “that’s that. We’ve no business staying here. We may as well go and join the celebrations.”

“Yeah,” said Hagrid in a very muffled voice, “I’d best get this bike away. G’night, Professor McGonagall- Professor Dumbledore, sir.”

As he wiped his eyes on his jacket sleeve, Hagrid took off down the street and into the night sky on the massive motorcycle.

“I shall see you soon, I expect, Professor McGonagall,” said Dumbledore, nodding to her. 

Professor McGonagall blew her nose in reply. Dumbledore turned and walked back down the street. On the corner he stopped and took out the silver cigarette lighter. With one click, twelve balls of light sped back to their lamps so that Privet Drive glowed once more with it’s orange lighting. Just barely, he could make out a tabby cat slinking around the corner at the other end of the street. He could just see the bundle of blankets on the step of number four.

“Good luck, Y/N,” he whispered in the night sky. Turning on his heel, with the swish of his cloak, he was gone. A gentle breeze ruffled the neat hedges of Privet Drive as they lay silent under the inky black night sky. The very last place you’d expect astonishing events to occur. 

Y/N Potter rolled over inside their blankets without waking up. One small hand closed on their letter as they slept on, not knowing how special or remarkable or loved they were. Not knowing how famous they were, or in a few hours, they’d be woken by Mrs. Duresley’s scream as she opened the front door to put out the milk bottles. Nor that they’d spend the next few weeks being prodded and pinched by their cousin Dudley… they couldn’t know this very moment, people meeting in secret all over the country were holding up their glasses with hushed voices, cheering: 

“To Y/N Potter- the one who lived!”


End file.
